


Swansong

by Govi



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Govi/pseuds/Govi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>John Dawson is Sean's character in <i>The Red Riding</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> John Dawson is Sean's character in _The Red Riding_

Swansong

It was many years since Viggo had worked as a waiter, but he picked up the routine quite easily. He helped to get the supplies from the large catering van and then gave a hand to the other waiters setting up the large food table.

It hadn't been very difficult to get the job; this would be a big social event which a lot of the important local people would attend and the caterer could use every – cheap – hand he could get. John Dawson was a very prominent man and those lucky enough to be invited would all be here later tonight.

The house was huge and of a very unusual style. "Designed to look like the wings of a swan" one of the other waiters had said, when the van had entered the gates of Shangri-La, as the house, or rather the mansion, was called.

Viggo, who had heard the stories about Dawson, was slightly surprised by the swan thing, especially when he discovered a lot of the swan theme inside the house too. It seemed like an unusually sentimental streak in a man like that. The pictures he'd seen spoke of a well-off businessman, expensively dressed, a strong featured face softened a little by living in luxury and a prominent nose. Not an imaginative man one would reckon and the swans intrigued Viggo almost as much as the person, Dawson himself, did.

Running between the kitchen and the enormous living room he made sure to peek into as many of the rooms as he could without attracting too much attention, making an inventory for later. It didn't take long to discover the study with its large desk made of dark wood. That room was his ultimate goal for this evening.

The host and his wife were nowhere to be seen and Viggo assumed they were upstairs, dressing. Three man dressed in black, were keeping an eye on things and it seemed like a good idea to keep as much out of their way as he possibly could.

He was busy arranging the salads on the food table when he heard a loud voice and looking up he saw Dawson, inexplicably in black evening dress, descending the broad stairs in the hallway. Blond hair shining under the hall lights, he was joking with one of the men in black. He had a deep, rough voice that somehow sent shivers down Viggo's spine. The Yorkshire accent was heavy and thick, belying the man's expensive exterior. As if he noticed he was being watched, he suddenly turned round to look at Viggo, who hastily averted his eyes.

Some time later the guests started to arrive and Viggo was kept busy serving food and drinks. He watched Dawson moving around the huge living room, now filled with smoke. He seemed the perfect host, charming and witty with both male and female quests. His wife, following a few steps behind him, looked rather fragile and nervous. One of Dawson's men seemed to keep close to her all the time and after a while took her arm to lead her to a sofa and make her sit down.

It would be interesting to have a chat with her, but Viggo knew that this wasn't the right place for it. Filling glasses, he carefully scanned the guests, glad to have done his homework and having read all the material that the local reporter, Jack, had given him. At least he now was able to recognise a large number of the men in the room. He wasn't too surprised to see the local politicians, but the amount of high placed police officers did surprise him and he remembered Jack's words, "He has them all, Dawson has."

An hour or so later, the party seemed to mellow out a bit and Viggo could leave the room for a while to step out of the kitchen door and smoke a long craved cigarette. He strolled around the house, whistling between his teeth when he saw the row of expensive cars lined up by the gate. There were two men at the gate, obviously checking the guests coming in and once again he congratulated himself on applying for the catering job.

Back inside, they gave him a large tray with warm snacks and he walked around the living room, serving them. He stopped when he reached Dawson who was talking to Chief Superintendent Molloy and offered him the plate. A hand, holding a small cigar waved him off, candlelight reflecting in the golden ring on it and he turned to the policeman who took a small canapé from his tray.

His tray was empty when Dawson raised his voice to tell his quests there would be a big firework display in the garden. Everyone made their way to the large windows and the big glass wall, even the catering people and the guards, allowing Viggo to slip out of the room unseen, knowing this was his chance.

He stood on the doorstep of the study glancing in, but it was empty. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. The first explosions of the fireworks startled him, but then he moved fast, switching on the desk lamp. There was a table next to the desk with a large model sat on it, probably the shopping mall Dawson was planning to build. Viggo took the small camera from his inside pocket and took a few shots. He rummaged through the drawers of the desk, but they offered nothing more than the usual clutter, so he turned round and tried the door of the large cabinet in the corner. The door wasn't locked and he looked into a neat row of hanging file folders.

Dawson was certainly either very well organized or paid good money to have it done. Viggo picked out a heavy file labelled 'The Swan Shopping Centre', and took it with him to the desk. The sound of the fireworks and the guests applauding, making appropriate sounds of approval and admiration, made him feel confident enough to open the file cover and start taking pictures. It seemed pretty good material and he was sure the man who'd assigned him would be more than happy to have it and pay him the bonus he had promised. Every page he looked at seemed more and more interesting and he kept on taking pictures, forgetting all around him.

He whistled at the sheet with the estimated costs which named a sum of one hundred million British pounds. That was an awful lot of money. He had just turned the page when suddenly the door opened and the big lights were turned on.

Two of Dawson's men stepped into the room, closing the door behind them and Viggo backed up to the wall behind him, feverishly searching his brain for something to say. There was nothing to be found and they weren't asking anyway. One of them just grabbed him by the hair and dragged him along to the desk, big hands searching his body, and finding nothing. He was roughly pushed down in the chair.

"Look," Viggo started saying, "I…"

"Shut the fuck up," the biggest one said, his mouth a grim line beneath a dark moustache. "Get Mr Dawson here," he said to the other who nodded and disappeared.

They waited in silence. An enormous thundering sound announced what was probably the end of the fireworks and finally the door opened and John Dawson stepped in. He looked at the man holding Viggo and just a small movement of his head was enough to get him yanked out of the chair by his hair again. He winced and even more so when Dawson stepped in close and cupped Viggo's face, their noses nearly touching. Green eyes, beautiful eyes really, pierced his and Viggo swallowed dryly.

"Did he have anything on him?" Dawson asked, eyes glued to Viggo's.

"Only a camera - it's on the desk," Moustache said.

This time the question was directed at him. "Who are you?"

"I… my name is Viggo Mortensen."

"That's not what I fucking meant and you know it!" The hand on his face tightened and made it hard to speak.

"I was just curious when I saw the scale model, that's all."

"You're lying, Mr Mortensen. Right," he said turning to Moustache, "I have to return to my guests. Make sure he can't get away; I will talk to him and get some answers later. Go to the caterer and tell him I caught one of his waiters stealing and sent him home." With that he turned and left the room and the next moment Viggo felt a blow on the head and the lights went out.

He woke up with a blinding headache, lying on the floor, hands and feet tied and something that felt like a velvet curtain stuffed into his mouth. His limbs were cramped and he tried to roll over to his other side, but found out he couldn't. The noises in the house had subdued to a faint rumble and he guessed the party was coming to an end. Thinking about Dawson's cold, green eyes he started panicking, but then told himself to keep his head cool. The guy wasn't going to do him serious harm was he? He was probably just trying to scare him off.

What seemed like hours later, the door finally opened and Dawson and his gorillas stepped in and switched on the desk lamp. Blinking in the sudden light, Viggo was hauled unceremoniously to his feet, while the cloth was pulled out of his mouth. By now his headache was over, leaving only a slight throbbing in his temples, but fear was creeping up his spine as he looked into Dawson's face.

Dawson sat down at his desk chair and propped his feet, in expensive Italian shoes, on his polished desk. He took his time lighting a cigar and blew out the smoke slowly,

"So Viggo, it is Viggo, isn't it? You and I will have a talk and you're going to tell me everything."

Viggo licked his lips, his voice creaky and dry, "I've told my friends where I would be tonight."

Dawson looked up, his lip curled up in a sneer, "I had you for smarter than that lad. It wasn't that hard to find your hotel and your humble belongings. They are all packed and here. You don't have any friends in this city except me, so be sensible and talk. I know you're a fucking spy, but for who? Who sent you here?"

The grip on his hair tightened, forcing him to stand on his toes, "I can't tell you," he said. "I've sworn secrecy."

Before he even finished his sentence Dawson was out of his chair, grabbing Viggo by the throat, spinning him round and pushing him into the nearest wall, a hand closing over Viggo's balls.

"I don't think you realise your situation, lad. Now let me make myself clear. I ask and you answer, understood?" The big hand squeezed with every word and Viggo cried out and then nodded, trying to catch his breath.

All of it, the whole situation, the man, the big, powerful body moving against his, one hand around his balls, the other on the nape of his neck pressing him into the wall. So long ago and so good, bad turned into good, fucking shameful but he was so hard and he didn't know fear from anticipation all of a sudden. Dawson's hands blurring the line of what he ought to into what he wanted, needed even, and he thought he had left that behind, but he had not, hard cock crushed deliciously painfully into the hard wall in proof.

Something must have alerted Dawson, as he released Viggo's neck and turned him around, eyes travelling down his body,

"So what do we have here?" voice softer now, slight smirk on his face.

"Wait outside," he told his men without even turning round, eyes still on Viggo.

"But…" one of the men started saying.

"I said wait outside," he said and the men left, closing the door behind them and leaving them alone.

Viggo's eyes closed of their own violation as Dawson's hands turned him around again, gasped as he felt the hands on his pants, opening them and yanking them down. He struggled to step out of them then kicked off his shoes, while Dawson pushed him forwards, bending him over the smooth, polished top of his desk.

The hand back at the nape of his neck was forcing him to look at the scale model of Dawson's fucking shopping centre, face pressed sideways, almost painfully. He could smell Dawson's arousal over his cologne, Brut or something even more expensive than that and then that smooth voice, talking dirty, insinuating itself inside of him making him spread his legs even wider. The sound of the zipper obscenely loud and Dawson spitting into his hand thickly, wetting his cock.

"So that's what you want, a nice piece of cock in your arse, lad?" Dawson pressing in, slowly but persistently, dry, painful and good. Viggo moaned, struggling to take it all, disgusted with himself, yet aroused beyond caring, opening up and yielding to the hand pressing him down even more until he was filled and they could move together. His hands scrabbled over the smooth surface and then grabbed the far edge of the desk, while Dawson rode him, hard and relentlessly. He came without even a touch to his cock, as if his brain was being fucked even more than his body. Dawson pounded into him maybe three or four times before he came too and then collapsed heavily on Viggo's body.

They stayed like that for a while, until Dawson slowly got up. His hand pressed down on the nape of Viggo's neck again in a warning. He lifted Viggo's shirt with his other hand, and slowly wiped his cock with it. His voice was still a bit breathless when he finally spoke,

"You will give me some answers now. After that you will leave this town in one piece, if you're sensible that is. The camera will stay here. Understood?"

Once more the hand pressed him down and Viggo nodded weakly.

More pressure and he closed his eyes again. "Speak up."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes Mr Dawson."


	2. Chapter 2

**Swansong**

 

Even though Dawson had ordered him to leave town and the "or else" behind it had been very clear, Viggo couldn't make himself do it. Instead, he followed Dawson around as much as he could and he wasn't really trying very hard to hide. He was annoyed with himself and thoroughly disgusted most of the time, but was still as fascinated by the man as a rabbit by a snake. A beautiful, colourful, but still deadly snake.

He had told Dawson all he knew about the man who had hired him, which wasn't much. The guy had paid him a considerable sum of money and had promised him a substantial bonus if he succeeded and in exchange Viggo had never asked too many questions. Even back then he hadn't really believed the man's name was Brown, but assumed he had his reasons for staying anonymous. All he had for an address was the post office box he was supposed to send his reports to and that was all.

Dawson had pressed matters a little and then a little harder and in sleepless nights Viggo still thought about those hours, uncertain what was shocking him most; the swift, ruthless violence that was hidden underneath a thin layer of charm, or the eager way he had been aroused by it and still was.

Viggo had sent a written report with most of the details he could remember from the files he had photographed and had made a vague promise of more to follow soon, which was enough to keep 'Mr. Brown' happy for the moment. Of course he would have to come clean sooner or later. He was just stalling, but for now it would do.

He had enough money to rent a cheap motel room with a complementary breakfast which wasn't any good, but filling. At night he frequented pubs which served cheap lager, where he fitted in quite easily and that's how he learned about the classy Karachi Club and Dawson's Saturday lunches.

So he stood here on this drizzly Saturday morning, on the other side of the street, underneath a small, unhealthy looking tree for a bit of shelter. It was almost an hour later, when the white Jensen stopped in front of the club. A man came rushing out, carrying an umbrella, holding it above Dawson's head when he stepped out of the car.

There was no doubt about Dawson being a VIP here and probably not just because of his money. The guys in the pub approved of him, said he did great things for the city and its occupants, said there was talk about a large new project that promised to put a stop to the unemployment. Dawson gave money to charity and helped raise funds. The people in the pub didn't really know him personally, but all said he was a real "Yorkshireman" and that seemed good enough for them.

Cold rain dripping from his hair, slowly soaking his too thin jacket, Viggo watched Dawson climbing up the stairs to the entrance. Just before he entered he suddenly turned around and looked straight at Viggo. Viggo stared back, remembering a similar thing happening when he had been in Dawson's house last week, as if there was some kind of connection between the two of them. Dawson turned to the man holding the umbrella and said something, then stepped inside the building and disappeared.

Viggo stood as if frozen under the tree, as he watched the man coming towards him. Every instinct screamed at him to run, get the fuck out of there, but his feet seemed glued to the pavement. The guy stopped in front of him, cool blue eyes and bad skin.

"Mr. Dawson wants you inside," he said gruffly, a thick thumb pointing over his shoulder towards the club. His tone made clear this was an order, not a request, and Viggo hesitated.

"Now!" the man said, turning, and Viggo nodded, following him across the street. No umbrella was held above his head and Viggo shook his head like a dog would, as soon as they reached the porch.

Inside it was quite dark, dimmed lights and soft music playing. The velvety colours and shades reminded him of the club's oriental name and breathed money with a capital M. There was a large bar, with numerous bottles, a dark haired girl behind it, polishing glasses.

She looked up when Viggo entered, but looked down at her hands when she noticed who was with him. Bad Skin grabbed him by the elbow and steered him towards the far end of the bar pushing him into a secluded room.

Dawson was seated at the sole table, a pint in front of him.

"Viggo, "he said, "sit down," and gestured at the empty seat opposite him.

A waiter entered the room, carrying another pint on a tray and put it down in front of Viggo.

Bad Skin finally released his arm and leaned against the wall, while Viggo sat down in the appointed chair.

"Cheers mate," Dawson said, holding up his glass and Viggo raised his and clinked it against Dawson's. "So tell me, why the fuck are you still here and on my tail? Still trying to earn money spying around?"

Putting down his glass, Viggo shrugged. "No."

"So why are you here? Why don't you get back to where you came from?"

Again Viggo shrugged and stared at the table, feeling the weight of Dawson's eyes on him. He released a breath he didn't even know he was holding when the waiter came in and put down a steaming bowl of soup in front of Dawson.

"Bring another one," Dawson ordered and the waiter hurried out of the room, returning with another bowl he placed in front of Viggo. A silver basket with fresh, warm bread was placed in the centre of the table and then the waiter disappeared.

"Leave us alone," Dawson directed Bad Skin, who pushed himself off the wall and disappeared. Picking up his spoon he started to eat and Viggo followed his example.

The soup was spicy and very good, the bread delicious and only now did Viggo realize he was hungry. He almost scalded his mouth trying to eat the soup and Dawson grinned.

"Such a greedy lad you are," he said, voice rough and silken at the same time, accent as heavy and thick as the soup.

Viggo blushed, refusing to look up from his bowl, but slowed down his eating. Only when Dawson pushed away his empty plate did he do the same and their eyes met. Dawson lit one of his small cigars and blew a large plume of smoke into Viggo's face. Viggo searched his pocket for his cigarettes, and pulled one from his crumpled packet. He struggled to not look away from Dawson's appraising eyes, but soon lost and dropped his eyes.

The waiter came in and cleared the table, then closed the door behind him when Dawson told him to.

"Time to pay for lunch," Dawson said, shoving back his chair. "Come here."

Viggo could feel heat creeping up, colouring his neck and face. He was hard almost instantaneously and he shifted on his chair, but he stayed where he was. He cried out, more from shock than from pain, when Dawson's hand struck out and cuffed his head, hard.

"Come here," he repeated, voice cool and menacing now. Viggo slowly rose from his chair, reluctantly stepping around the table to stand next to Dawson's chair.

"On your knees."

He opened his mouth to protest, to at least keep some sliver of dignity, but the words didn't come.

"That's what you're fucking here for, aren't you lad?"

Viggo sighed and then dropped to his knees. Dawson spread his legs, a large index finger pointing at the floor between them. "Here."

Ears burning with shame, cock straining against the confines of his tight jeans, Viggo knee-walked to the spot. Dawson opened his zipper and freed his half hard cock from black silk briefs and pushed it almost into Viggo's face.

Hesitantly, Viggo opened his mouth and gave it an experimental lick. He closed his eyes when Dawson grabbed him by the hair and shoved his cock into Viggo's mouth, almost choking him. He swayed a little and tried to close a hand around the hardening flesh, but it was bashed away.

"Keep your fucking hands to yourself."

Big hands held his head, held him steady and close, clasping strands of hair and guiding his pace. The tight grip on his head felt so good and he couldn't help moaning around Dawson's cock. Short erratic bursts of air escaping from Dawson's mouth, signalled he was about to climax and Viggo steeled himself to swallow Dawson's come, when he was suddenly pushed away with force and almost sent to the floor.

"Get up," Dawson panted, his face flushed with arousal. When Viggo didn't react fast enough the hand was back in his hair, pulling him up and he scrabbled to his feet. Dawson's hand came around, plucking at the buttons of Viggo's jeans then pulling them down.

Viggo was still struggling to get his feet out of the jeans when he was already pushed into the wall, rough plaster scratching his face. He braced himself, whimpering at the slick sound of Dawson wetting his cock.

His hips were pulled backwards roughly and then the thick cock breached him until he could feel the scratching of Dawson's pubic hair against him. He stilled for a minute and then started moving, picking up the pace, literally fucking Viggo into the wall. A hand landed on the nape of his neck and another over his mouth, immobilising and muting him. He stuck out his tongue, lapping at Dawson's fingers, and dropped a hand, working it into the tight space between his body and the wall then closing it around his cock. Just a few strokes and he was coming, with smothered cries. His body shook uncontrollably then clenched around Dawson's cock and he could feel Dawson spurt inside of him.

After some time Dawson pulled out, walked back to the table and cleaned himself with a napkin. Viggo turned around slowly, pulling up his pants, not bothering with cleaning up, not ready to leave the perfect haze his brain and body seemed to be in just yet.

He blinked when Dawson opened the door and called out to Bad Skin, and he hurried to get fully dressed.

"Take him away," Dawson said," you and Burrows. Drive him thirty miles or so towards London and kick him out there. If he doesn't behave, make him."

He stepped aside while Bad Skin grabbed Viggo by the arm and pulled him out of the room. For a moment Viggo's eyes met Dawson's and Dawson gave him a tight smile.

"Don't come back here lad. This is the last time you and I will meet and you're still able to fucking walk away."

He was in the back seat, keeping his mouth shut as he had been told. The two men in the front talked about football, ignoring their passenger and he used the time to think about his desperate situation. He had about seven quid on him and the – sticky – clothes he was wearing. He had an apartment in London, but no money to pay the rent and on top of that he would have to pay back 'Mr. Brown's' money.

His only hope was that there were messages from new customers on his answering machine and this time he wouldn't be picky, but even take the ones trying to find evidence for a divorce.

True to Dawson's orders they kicked him out, literally, on some by-road not too far from London, and he sat down on the grass verge while he watched the car disappear, thinking about all that had happened.

Half an hour later he stuck up his thumb for maybe the tenth time, but this time the big blue truck stopped.

"Where you heading?" asked the truck driver, a big, friendly guy.

"Leeds," he said, *Fuck it, I am going back*


	3. Chapter 3

_"Just because swans mate for life, I don't think its that big a deal. First of all, if you're a swan, you're probably not going to find a swan that looks much better than the one you've got, so why not mate for life?"  
\- Jack Handy_

 

**Swansong**

 

The truck driver brought him halfway; two rides and five hours later he was back in Leeds. His clothes, the money, it was all still there in his room, so he could tell himself that's what had made him go back in the first place.

He stripped off his clothes and went to bed, falling asleep within minutes. He woke late next morning and still felt tired as if yesterday's events had exhausted him. Every time he shifted he could feel the slightly painful result of the rough fuck Dawson had given him and he stayed in bed, eyes closed, replaying the scene in his mind, arousal stronger than shame for the moment.

He had been very young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, when he'd got that Saturday job at Dan's Photo Shop. By then he had fooled around with a few girls and quite a few boys too; nothing very serious and not especially exciting most of the time.

Dan had been about thirty-five, old to Viggo's eyes, but quite good looking. He had a tall athletic body, dirty blond hair and a big nose. Not a man of many words and Viggo, who was really interested in the secrets of photography and the dark room, learned by watching closely. Within a month he could do all the basic stuff by himself and it gave him enough confidence to do some not-so-basic stuff when Dan left him alone that particular day.

That's when he fucked up Mrs. Stevens' holiday pictures; too many chemicals gave quite an interesting effect to her uninspired snapshots, but he didn't expect she was really the kind to appreciate that.

He did expect Dan to be angry, but not as angry as that, cursing and swearing. Viggo tried pointing out the artistic merits of his works to Dan and found himself pushed against the wall, a big hand fisted in the collar of his shirt, while Dan shouted at him.

They were almost nose to nose and he looked at Dan's fiery blue eyes, his flaring nostrils and suddenly he was hard and aroused more than he had ever been before. His body slumped to the wall, losing all defiance, his eyes closed and he let out an unfamiliar sound. Dan had stepped back and stared at Viggo, then roughly grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around.

That was his first time, how he had lost his virginity. It was also how he had discovered his special kink, and even though the sex hadn't been very good, the way Dan had treated him sure made up for it. Dan had fired him the same day, unable to look Viggo in the eye, using Mrs. Stevens' pictures as an excuse.

Viggo soon discovered there weren't too many men who appealed to him in that particular way and through the years he'd had mostly "normal" sex with guys, sometimes notched up a little using handcuffs or ties.

The strong attraction he had felt for Dawson was nothing new; he liked the strong and rough features. There was a swaggering self confidence in the older man's movements that appealed to Viggo and made him give in the moment Dawson had slammed Viggo into the wall. The hand on his neck, the other one on his balls made him fall back into that certain head space very easily and very fast.

Of course Dan had been a nice guy basically, despite his rough demeanour. The man had lost his temper and something securely hidden had escaped.

Dawson was not a nice guy at all. Viggo was sure of that. Dawson had used him and had threatened him more than once and Viggo knew he should despise the man. There was a strong sense of corruption about him, and maybe even something worse, just underneath the layers of jovial behaviour and expensive suits. He had been kicked out twice, and still Viggo went back for more. What the fuck was wrong with him?

This seemed to go further than having a slight masochistic streak. 'No more' he decided. He would still stick around here, not for Dawson and the way his big hands had kept him in place, but for Mr. Brown. He had accepted Brown's money and it was about time he earned it. He would do what was asked; find out more about Dawson's shopping centre project and about the man himself, but without coming too close.

He got out of bed and showered, counted his money and decided to go to the pub around the corner to have something between breakfast and lunch. He knew that he needed to watch every penny, and even though he was very hungry going to the pub wasn't really a good idea, but still indulged himself.

As often is the case he was proven wrong. Jim, the pub owner, told him his son Derek, who had worked in the pub ever since leaving school, was about to go on a three week holiday with his new girlfriend and he and his wife would have to manage by themselves. Before he had even finished talking, Viggo had offered to take up Derek's work for those three weeks.

In minutes they came to an agreement: Viggo would help out every day from late in the afternoon until closing time and he would earn a meagre salary each week, free meals and a free room above the pub. Jim took him upstairs and showed him the room and the small en suite bathroom. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, but compared to the rat hole Viggo lived in now it was fantastic. After his first free meal he went for his stuff and an hour later he was settled in and serving at the bar. He was pleased with himself; this would take care of his normal daily expenses and he had a large part of the day free to delve into Dawson's life.

Luck seemed to stay on his side. When he opened the local newspaper next morning, there was a large picture of Dawson on the front page. It seemed he was about to open a renovated part of the football stadium that night and there was a nice back story and a small interview with the article.

In the interview Dawson talked about this big new project he would realize on the land he'd bought and Viggo assumed this had to be the shopping centre thing. It wasn't difficult to get Jim talking about Dawson and without Viggo even asking, he told him where he could find the land Dawson had purchased almost a year ago.

The next day Viggo was up before dawn. He had lived up to Jim's rules and didn't drink a drop while working. He decided to go and see Dawson's piece of land and he walked to the nearest bus station to take the one that would bring him closest. After the bus stopped he had to walk for 30 minutes before he reached the big sign saying 'Dawson Developments'. It was next to the motorway and there wasn't really much to see apart from the sign. He walked a stubborn mile or so further, where he saw the remains of the burnt out gypsy camp.

Viggo had always been fascinated by their particular way of life and felt he would like travelling around like they did, without a goal, even though this particular spot seemed kind of bleak. He wondered what had happened here and if Dawson had had anything to do with it.

He was still caught in his thoughts when the white car stopped beside him and he turned to look inside. He startled when he looked straight into Dawson's face, feeling like he should try to run, hesitating when Dawson opened the door and told him to get in. "Get the fuck in," Dawson ordered again and this time he did, sliding into the car and closing the door behind him.

"I told you to stay away," Dawson said and Viggo forced himself to look into those green eyes.

"I had some unfinished business here."

"Did you now? What brought you to this spot?"

"I just heard you bought this land and I wanted to see it. What happened here?"

"They refused to leave and this is my land. I called the police for help, and that's as far as I was involved." There was grim determination in his voice and Viggo looked at him again.

"I didn't leave," he said, steeling himself to keep locking eyes.

Dawson grinned, "You mean I should call the police again?"

When Viggo didn't answer Dawson just started the car and drove away, Viggo discovering he didn't really care where to. He stole a glance at the man sitting next to him, the strong profile, the big hands on the steering wheel. They didn't speak again until the car stopped in front of Shangri-La's gate. Within seconds the gate was opened and they drove up the driveway and into the detached garage.

The motor still running, Dawson spoke, his eyes on the concrete wall in front of him, "There's something about this car… It's beautiful and expensive clearly, but there's more to it than that. I mean I have this girl Paula. She and I go back a long way and she's up for almost anything, but for some reason she doesn't get it with the car, but I guess you do, don't you lad?"

Confused, aware that just the word 'lad" was enough to make him agree to almost everything, Viggo nodded, then said "yes," no fucking clue what he was agreeing to.

Now Dawson looked at him, one hand leaving the steering wheel and landing on Viggo's crotch, "Get out then," and Viggo opened the door and stepped out, while Dawson killed the motor and stepped out too. His head spinning he let Dawson unbuckle his belt, yank down his pants and bend him over the hood of the car. Viggo hissed when his naked skin was pressed onto hot metal and cried out softly when Dawson's neat row of teeth bit down sharply on his shoulder.

"I don't fucking care for you," Dawson said while he pushed in. "I don't fucking care for anyone, except myself. I did care for my wife at one time and what good did that bring us?"

Struggling to take it, unprepared and still sore from two days ago, Viggo focussed more on the voice itself than the words and he moaned.

"You feel good though, nice and tight and I like fucking you." That voice, soft and slithering, dirty, so fucking good, while Dawson pressed in even deeper and Viggo relaxed into the car, almost melted against the metal, opening and taking all that Dawson gave.

Another bite and he was coming, fighting against the words that wanted to be said, offering all Dawson would want to take. He listened to the rough sounds of Dawson coming, a dirty litany of swearing, his presence inside Viggo now even more painfully good.

It was not like Dawson invited him inside the house. After they had wiped themselves clean, Dawson took him back into town, leaving the motor running, not even looking at Viggo, "Get the hell out of here lad, before you get hurt," was all he said and he was gone, leaving Viggo still dazed on the curb.

Sleep evaded him that night, the day left behind not left behind and spooking him. His body felt good, but his mind was in turmoil, unsure of what to do now.

He finally fell asleep at dawn and was only just in time at work. There seemed to be a lot of the regular customers at the bar at this unusual time and they seemed unusually silent too. "Haven't you heard?" Jim asked and handed him the paper.

He stared at the front page, the headlines seemingly twice as big and then he walked outside, still clutching the paper. There, bright sunlight mocking him, he read it again and again until he slumped down onto the street, hiding his face in his hands.

The End


End file.
